


Bylines and Bygones

by Necronon



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Events Before and After TWotL, First Time, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Idiots in Love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Vignettes, Wendigo, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Will accepts the modest cup of lukewarm coffee without a word and takes a hasty drink. Hannibal enjoys the little involuntary sound of satisfaction he makes, the rush of air through beautifully arched nostrils. Will’s mind is an alluring enigma, but he is pleasant to observe in a general way, especially now, bereft of his glasses and serene, rimed by an aureole of early-morning light. Vestal in a way that makes Hannibal feel peckish.Jack struggles to accept a truth he already knows, and Will struggles with the beast. His, and Hannibal's.





	Bylines and Bygones

Section Chief Jack Crawford sits in his abysmal excuse for an office in the basement of the Academy, all beige brick and eggshell concrete. No drapes, because there are no windows. He looks up, not yet ready to acknowledge the portentous mailer on his desk, and considers the water stain on the panel above his head. It looks a lot like old blood. Not arterial, but an oozing puncture. A pooling passive stain with definite edges. He visualizes a desiccated corpse slumped over an air duct, some poor soul before him that had tried to crawl his way out of the BAU’s dungeon and away from too large a case load. Off the moral tight rope that inevitably begins to chafe.

Crawford doesn’t feel compelled that way, not anymore. He feels buried, breathing his own adipocere. IA is swarming the facility, and all he can think of is how much he misses her.

Bella would have balked at his office. She would have hated this little modular void, ever in the style of ‘70s brutalism. He sees her now, the cut of a bright smile and thick hair bouncing about her sun-kissed shoulders. Bella, with her broad-spectrum altruism and infinite patience; his window to the world; his escape, now stonewalled.

He sits in a graveyard, stones inscribed with the names of friends: monuments to his single-minded oversights. His never quite seeing the forest. He sees ghosts in dreary halls: cross sections of Beverly Katz in the Hair and Fiber labs. Will, bisected in the autopsy room.

Crawford reaches slowly for the Manila bubble mailer waiting conspicuously atop his desk. He opens the parcel with a tight frown and tries not to think of an ear as he carefully upends the packet. Two more individually sealed items slide out onto his desk: an envelope with JACK scrawled hastily across its face in ballpoint—not the dreaded copperplate—and an opaque evidence bag used for sealing documents. He opens the letter first.

 

> _Jack,_
> 
> _I guess I don’t have to concern myself with indictment anymore, considering your impending suspension. So I’m going to say it: you were wrong about him, and you still are. I'm dabbling in the truth here—you can put down your libel stick. I know you’ve discounted most of my theories before, so I’ll make this one watertight and, instead of just warning you that they’re playing the long game, I’ll reinstate myself as a credible source. Open the bag, Jack._
> 
> _PS: Do you know about the recent art expo in Palermo?_

 

The letter isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. The second item, the so-called evidence, remains sealed and adjacent. Crawford waits, eyeing the nondescript baggy as if it might spontaneously combust; then he reaches out and slides it over, the sound of the plastic against the grain of his desk disconcerting in the silence. The seal pops easily and the contents slip free without fanfare. The cover page on a sheaf of graphite renderings is so startling that he almost doesn’t notice the small thumb drive beneath them.

Three drawings. They’re not of Florentine architecture, but the subject is just as detailed. He recognizes Will Graham immediately. He’s posed and drawn in the style of the masters, the presentation not unlike some of the Ripper’s tableaux—excepting that Will appears sedate, not dead. In a fugue, or drugged and poised; either seems likely. In the third, however, Will’s perceptive eyes stare right back at Crawford, his body shaded with contusions and the familiar stripe of Lecter’s handiwork beneath the navel. Reclining in an exotic assembly of flora and fauna, several species of annuals and avian skulls. Sweet alyssum and winter jasmine soften the lines of nude thighs, offering a scant measure of modesty, with stocks of orange and red snapdragon threaded through lax arms, the palette like that of something aflame. Will looks like one of Lecter’s centerpieces, presentation as provocatively macabre as it is erotic. Crawford thinks of Lecter’s _Leda and the Swan_ and his own initial profile of Lecter and his predilections. Attributes he’d assumed had been an exhibition of wealth more than character.

Eidetic memory could still excuse the drawings. The content on the thumb drive is another story.

The video is unassuming at first, just a still view into what appears to be a posh study or lounge. Then a figure moves into the frame, wearing a dark shirt. Dark hair. Will. The view is askance and above, but clear. Crawford is quickly reminded of the surveillance assembly—a model not available to the public—that Zeller had signed out but never returned.

In the video, Will sits in a chair situated near the hearth. The hearth is lit, and Will holds a drink. He’s still for a while before a second figure joins him, coming up behind the chair. The audio is unfortunately more difficult to make out. He can distinguish their voices, but not everything they say.

Several minutes pass wherein nothing notable happens, but Crawford is patient. He can see Will’s hands are bandaged and remembers the encounter with Randal Tier. Now he’s got a time frame: not long before the infamous swan dive into the Atlantic.

Crawford doesn’t pretend to understand Will or his relationships with others. Never did. It was easy enough to write him off as socially awkward—a sensitive. Now, Crawford’s brain is latent in accepting what’s happening. They’re by the fire now, back angled towards the lofty camera, but there’s no mistaking their proximity and the longitude of Lecter’s roaming hand. Will makes a strained noise loud enough for the small mic to register, and Crawford almost closes his laptop. The video ends with Lecter, shortly after Will’s departure, pausing beneath the clandestine camera and peering up at it, as if through the lens and through time, at Crawford.

Section Chief Jack Crawford sets his elbows on the edge of his desk and pushes his forehead into his hands.

Section Chief Jack Crawford was wrong about Will Graham.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, the _National_ _Tattler_ runs a headline: FBI SPECIAL AGENT’S SPECIAL SOMEONE. The same morning, Crawford finds Lounds’ implicated expo in a web archive and, after half an hour of skimming through a digital gallery, finds Will Graham. Not the man, but a painting with Lecter’s eye for detail and grotesque accouterments. The only exception is the liberal use of gradient pastels, the watercolors reverent in their honoring of the vibrant culture of Palermo. Celebratory. Mocking. The vivid subject is rimed in harsh black, the ink that bleeds out around the temples reminiscent of horns.

A stag’s, in particular.

 

* * *

 

Years before the titular elopement (and she’s determined it’s just that), Freddie Lounds kneels in the untidy space of lawn beneath an oak several yards away from Special Agent Will Graham’s living room window. She’s surprised to find the familiar Bentley parked behind an old pick-up. Surprised, more accurately, that Will’s therapist makes house calls. _Exclusive_ house calls. It’s enticing and, considering Lecter has already signed off on Will’s eval, very extracurricular.

_Freaks of a feather do flock together._

Will’s place is, putting it gently, a _fixer-upper_. The old, two-story home is colonial, much like many of the weary properties that litter the east coast. Undoubtedly a throwback to his life in Louisiana, bar the tin shacks and crawfish boils. Not exactly her cup of tea.

She’s too far to make out much beyond the partial of a ratty sectional and dark hall. She’s seen better upholstery on roadside recliners. What she doesn’t—and should have—anticipated is the man’s small army of canines. He’s practically turned the place into a massive kennel. It’s bad enough that Lecter is a second pair of eyes, but now she’s at an impasse. She’ll have to take a rain check on any libelous photos lying in wait. Freddie has a good feeling that opportunity will present itself. She can smell a lead, and Will Graham and his therapist absolutely reek of scandal. She just has to wait for it to unfold.

 

* * *

 

 Hannibal has an idyllic paper sack of groceries in the crook of an arm—there’s even the end of a French loaf peeking from top—and a bottle of wine in hand. His silver hair has fallen out of place, free of pomade, and Will takes a moment to enjoy how soft and _human_ he looks, waiting on his stoop to be invited in. Well, maybe a little _Nosferatu_ with Will’s porch light cutting harsh angles out of half a cheekbone and brow, one maroon eye smoldering on the dark side. Will suppresses a shiver and his overactive imagination, then moves aside.

Hannibal strides confidently past, depositing his groceries atop Will’s rickety dining room table. He bends a little at the waist to look at the damaged leg then at Will, as if asking, _Will it hold?_ and Will, a few paces behind, assures him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Will hasn’t eaten yet and quickly quashes his budding interest in what looks to be a lot of _really awesome food._ It probably has nothing to do with him. But—

“You didn’t have to—uh... What exactly are we doing?”

“Dinner, I had hoped. Would you rather something else?”

_No, no, that sounds great—I’m starving—let’s—_

“I shouldn't have called you so late. Jack won’t be very impressed when he finds out I’m... in need of house calls. Round-the-clock therapy sounds expensive. You’re not billing him for it, are you?” Will tries at a smile, but a traitorous growl from his stomach takes the wind out of most of it.

“I wasn’t aware Jack had any say in your affairs”—Hannibal is already fetching his coat from the rack and holding it open for him—“outside of your work. And I am your friend, Will. I was worried.”

Hannibal’s face is as inscrutable as stone; it draws Will’s attention to the prominent movement of his lips, their soft intonation. As if by remaining very still, Will is prevented from divining any further nuance or subtext. Will is somewhat grateful—Hannibal’s inexorable calm ameliorates the storm in his own mind. There’s only the sibilant buzz between _was_ and _worried._ The quiet affection that brings his hushed voice down a decibel. Will listens, rapt. Almost forgets he’s been asked a question.

“He doesn't. Still, I'm a little hard-pressed to expose you to my kitchen.” Will arches a brow as Hannibal lifts the coat, not to hand over but to help him into. “I think there might be something colonizing my sink."

"Shiitake would complement the sauce."

"Are you kidding? You're kidding.” Will nods his head towards his proffered coat, _Are we going somewhere?_ but he’s already threading arms into sleeves and turning to face Hannibal expectantly.

"If you're so certain of your kitchen's dilapidation, I would be happy to host instead."

“That’s probably a good idea. Jack seems to think you’re some kind of culinary wizard.”

There’s a micro-smile on Hannibal’s face. “Only the result of passion and practice. Like your tied flies.”

“Sure,” Will responds lamely, ever unsure what to do with compliments, even indirect ones. He rights a small figurine, an ornament of his grandmother’s, lying in dust on his shelf in the interim, grateful for the frame of his glasses as he turns back round to face his company.

Hannibal is patiently watching him, that small smile at the corner of his dark mouth. He always looks like he’s just eaten some kind of red fruit, like strawberry compote.

“I may not fish, but I can appreciate a deft hand. I should make a sous chef out of you.”

“I don’t really cook.” Oh God, he really doesn’t.

“Not yet.”

“You drove all the way here, and now we’re going back? That seems like a lot of trouble.”

“Not at all. More time for our conversations.”

“About work?”

“Whatever you like.”

Will buttons up his coat, considering. Then he says, “I want to know more about _you_.”

“All right.” Hannibal wears an expression that Will hasn’t yet deciphered as satisfaction. It’s barely more than a crease by his eyes, the slightest purse of his lips.

_I don't find you that interesting._

 

* * *

 

“Have a seat, Will.” Crawford lets out a laborious sigh and says to the rest, “I thought you all had jobs to do."

They immediately file out, Beverly fixing Will with an apologetic look before the door closes behind her. Will’s eyes linger on her retreating figure. He pivots toward Jack and looks at him from beneath raised eyebrows—or, more accurately, at his dull tie, tamped too tightly to his breast.

“Will—” Jack sighs, either collecting himself or wrangling something more professional to say. “What’s your relationship with Doctor Lecter?”

Will stoops and turns his head, diverting his gaze. Jack’s gaze. “I’m sorry?”

“You spend a lot of time together, don’t you?”

“He’s the therapist _you_ sent me to.”

“For eval, not therapy. Is he your therapist now?” Jack waits, but Will only glances to his collar. There’s a coffee stain by the fold, the work of an errant finger, crooked tie, and a too-full espresso. “All the more reason why a photo like this comes across all the wrong ways.” Crawford turns his laptop with a slow adjustment of his hand, letting Will see the latest entry on the _Tattler._ “I’m aware Ms. Lounds has a gift for making even the mundane titular, but if I’m being honest here, Will, I’m having a hard time with this one.”

Will’s glasses and stray curls don’t quite do him the mercy of masking his surprise. It’s there and gone again, and Jack doesn’t let on if he’s noticed or not. What Jack doesn’t know is that Will spends time with Lecter outside of the office. That it sort of just started happening, and Will sort of never minded much, to his surprise, and damn it, it _isn’t what it looks like._

It’s difficult to imagine an alternate circumstance that would pit them so closely together, so opportunistic and candid as the shot is. It screams _Lounds._ They aren’t kissing, but the set of Hannibal’s hand against Will’s cheek in the photo, and Will’s own soft mouth and wide eyes—he vividly remembers his panic and surprise until Hannibal’s hands had dropped to straighten Will’s collar—suggests they were either pulling apart or about to lean in. It looks ridiculous. Will might as well have been propped against a row of lockers, hugging a text book and gazing hopefully up at a flirtatious suitor. It had all the novelty of a bargain-bin romance. Jesus. It’s like Hannibal knew Freddie Lounds was peeping. Striking a pose.

Will grimaces and stuffs his hands into his pockets, throwing his gaze to a portrait of Bella. He distracts himself with her broad, bright smile and kind eyes, looking as carefree as Jack never does. God, he’s going to say it, isn’t he? He doesn’t know what else to say, and the longer he dawdles, the worse it all seems.

“It’s not what it looks like.”And it sounds as bad as it did in his head, so he quickly adds, a little too brusquely: “My collar. He was fixing it. So what, more of the same from Lounds.”

Jack is unfazed. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to advise caution.”

“You telling me who I can and can’t see in my spare time?” Will is looking him in the eyes now.

“So you are romantically involved with Hannibal Lecter?”

“No—Jesus.” Will throws out an arm, gesturing aimlessly. “That’s not the point I’m making here. We’re friends. I guess.”

“You’re just friends.”

“Aren’t you his friend? You know how he is, dinner and discourse.”

“I do. But I’m not sure it’s quite the same in your case.”

Will’s frown deepens. “We’re friends, Jack, yeah.”

“There’s a lot of speculation,” Jack says, adding, when Will squints his disapproval: “about your... capacity to handle these kinds of cases.”

Will’s patience is thinning. He pulls back his shoulders and crosses his arms: “I’m fine, Jack.”

Tension hangs in the air between them, then Jack heaves a sigh and turns his laptop back around. “Just be careful, Will. Lounds can do a lot with very little. Your being romantically involved—conjecture or no—with the psychiatrist I chose to clear you for field duty might leave a bitter taste in the wrong people’s mouths. Not everyone believes in you the same way I do.”

Will huffs a laugh. “You believe in me too much.”

“No,” he says, the sting of his sharp voice making Will flinch. “That’s why I’m trusting you to be delicate with this matter. You’re good, Will. You’re the best. You save lives, and I’m not going to have some tabloid bullshit shine a bad light on you. I need you out there.”

“If I don’t want to be?”

“People die.”

“That’s not really fair.”

“It’s reality. I trust you and I trust Doctor Lecter. Let’s just be sure we’re not making Ms. Lounds’ job any easier for her. The Bureau is quick to drop an asset that draws the wrong kind of attention, no matter what the real story is.”

“That,” Will says, nose wrinkling, “I have no intention of doing.”

“She’ll get bored with you and move on, soon enough.”

“Fingers crossed.”

Jack considers the photo of Will and Lecter one last time, then closes the laptop with slow emphasis and looks up at Will. “While you’re here, there’s something else I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Another body.”

“Used to be.”

 

* * *

 

They are in Hannibal’s office. It is 10:25 PM, and decidedly not the day of Will Graham’s scheduled appointment. Nevertheless, Will Graham stands by his fireplace, threadbare, olive button-up clinging where sweat has tacked the thin material to his skin. His eyes are rolled back behind hooded, twitching lids. His mouth is soft and open, speechless.

Hannibal doesn’t rise, not immediately. Not until he’s sure it’s a seizure. Then he slides smoothly out of his chair—having taken a seat to encourage Will, unsuccessfully, to do the same—and strides over. He thumbs Will’s eyes open and checks his pupils, lingering unnecessarily. He can smell the cloying sweetness of Will’s inflammation and fever, feel the sick heat radiating from his body.

A little longer, he thinks. It is worth the risk and has thus far been insightful. Entertaining at the least.

“Will.”

There’s no response beyond the twinging of tightly contracted muscle. Will looks as he often does in the throes of a nightmare, and Hannibal wonders where his mind has gone.

It’s never quite as rewarding as he anticipates, the vulnerability. He lifts a hand to Will’s temple to twist a tousled bit of chestnut hair, drawing it smooth and down so that it clings damply against his forehead like a dark barb. Being so near, able to touch so leisurely, is an empty gesture without Will’s explicit and exclusive consent. Without Will’s perceptive mind conscious of every decisive breach of his privacy. Every decisively intimate suggestion of hands and eyes.

Hannibal has become emboldened by their time together; and, to his own surprise, not wholly mechanical in his purposeful flirtation. He’s not just plying Will, he realizes, but indulging some budding affections of his own. Or, at the least, a deep-seated fascination. Will, always surpassing his expectations. Not like his other patients he’s set on their individual paths—because when he looks into Will’s mind, he finds Will looking right back. It’s a naked, terribly exhilarating sensation.

Hannibal draws a sharp breath and tamps down on a reflexive shudder, grateful Will isn’t present to needle him about it. The inevitable con of Will’s gift being that secrets must be doubly veiled.

It’d been two days since Will had stood, flustered, on his doorstep and told him he’d kissed Alana Bloom. And, more importantly, rejected thereafter. The thought still hangs like a skewed portrait on the wall of his mind, vexing but out of reach. Bringing it up again so soon—that is, the next morning—had nearly exposed his fixation.

It had been a dreary morning. Hannibal remembers his uncharacteristic distraction as he’d prepared omelets with truffles, seared tomato, and sausage—courtesy of the piquantly rude—all to be neatly (and unfortunately) packed away in thermal containers.

Hannibal lets himself in, finding an unfazed Will rousing to the sight of him. It’s become so natural now, something odd when spoken aloud or directly acknowledged, but otherwise endemic to their relationship. Hannibal has used the key he’s been permitted judiciously since reception.

Despite the breakfast cooling in Pyrex on the night stand, Hannibal doesn’t rush Will into wakefulness, instead indulging in his sleep-soft face and conversation. When Will finally props himself up on his elbows, blinking and irresistible in his natural acceptance of Hannibal’s presence, Hannibal at length speaks. It comes out before he can help himself:

“Have you heard from Ms. Bloom?”

Will stills and gives Hannibal a sharp look, not as dulled by sleep as Hannibal has presumed.

“It’s only been a day.” And then, right to the point: “Does it bother you”—with a sharply bent brow—“Doctor Lecter?”

“No.” Hannibal feels a small thrill race up his spice—Will has marked his snooping—but he doesn’t let an ounce of it show, not yet. “Understanding our personal relationships and experiences is paramount to understanding ourselves. And, as you know, I’ve a vested interest in you.”

“As a friend, or as a patient?”

“If it were the latter, the depth and nature of my interest might prove inappropriate.” Not the whole truth, but true enough.

There’s the smallest adjustment of Will’s mouth, a set to his jaw and slow blink that cannot be attributed entirely to exhaustion. Hannibal catalogs it all.

He cocks his head and looses a close-lipped, maddeningly complacent smile. “We do not have to discuss it.”

“No,” Will says, predictably indignant. “It’s fine. I’m the one that...” Will chews the inside of a cheek, the faintest bit of color staining his face. “I’m the one that drove an hour to tell you.”

“Indeed.”

He lets Will round up his thoughts, politely silent. Savoring Will’s hard-won honesty.

“It’s like you said.” Will shakes his head and shrugs a shoulder. “I needed to anchor myself.”

“More than that, I think.”

Will turns his head sharply to gawk at him, pursing his lips. He looks dubious, wearing a flat affect that seems to say, _Go ahead_ _and lay it all out_ _, because you’re going to anyways._ So he does.

“I think you were attracted to the fact that she knew. That, in realizing there was no raccoon in the chimney, she saw a glimpse of the truth of you. Being known can be an intensely liberating experience. Being seen.”

Will speaks his next words carefully, as if still processing some _de novo_ revelation. “Like you see me.” Then, realizing the context in which he’s made the comment and the implications it might carry, sits up and starts to mentally backpedal.

Hannibal doesn’t give him time to deflect; only says, a little impishly: “Yes, only you’ve yet to try and kiss me.” His eyes crinkle. Will’s wide-eyed offense is exquisite. He wants to push further, watch him squirm, but he schools himself.

“I’m not gay,” Will says flatly.

“I don’t think your sexual proclivities have any bearing on whether or not I know your nature, and whether or not you derive pleasure in my knowing. Such labels create boundaries in our minds, limiting our potential as human beings. Primitive barriers that make us dishonest.”

“Denominations help of understand each other. To communicate.”

“Praxis that breeds unnecessary compunction. Not everyone has your gift, Will. I can describe the beauty of Piazza San Marco during aqua alta, but for most it would only be a vicarious experience. You are limitless, Will, but given the chance, never deny yourself a genuine experience. Especially not in the name of denomination and convention.”

Will is gawking at him, unimpressed. Hannibal represses a faint smile.

“I thought we were talking about Alana.”

“We are.”

“But not just Alana.”

“No. Breakfast in bed?”

“No—” Will heaves a sigh and shoves at the sheets. “No, I’ll get up.”

“I’ve brought coffee, but I’m afraid it’s cooled some,” Hannibal says, raising the thermos and unscrewing the cap.

Will is so intent on Hannibal’s hands—a new development while Hannibal is cooking or sketching—that he doesn’t realize he’s being avidly observed. Hannibal wonders what he’ll think of them once he’s discovered the full extent of their capability. What they have done and will and can do. Would Will withdraw? Or remain flushed and deeply contemplative, like he has so often while playing voyeur to Hannibal expertly filleting ambiguous cuts of meat or delicately thinning vegetables. He wants to ask, but doesn’t—only exhibits his hands all the more. Is Will beginning to enjoy Hannibal’s hands on him as much as Hannibal: on a cheek; hip, forward but inscrutable in its passivity, leaving Will perplexed; on the small of his back, guiding him like a couple through a crowd. The squeeze of a shoulder, platonic were it not for the claustrophobic proximity.

Will accepts the modest cup of lukewarm coffee without a word and takes a hasty drink. Hannibal enjoys the little involuntary sound of satisfaction he makes, the rush of air through beautifully arched nostrils. Will’s mind is an alluring enigma, but he is pleasant to observe in a general way, especially now, bereft of his glasses and serene, rimed by an aureole of early-morning light. Vestal in a way that makes Hannibal feel peckish.

Will drinks his coffee black, and Hannibal’s French press, able to properly steep fresh, coarsely-ground beans, yields a far more robust brew than Will’s tired machine. Hannibal doesn’t need the verbal affirmation to know that Will’s become accustomed to the luxury. Will’s old tin of chicory hasn’t seen the light of day since Hannibal has started egregiously spoiling him. He’s had to resist less quaint gestures: Italian watches or bottles of cologne to complement well-formed wrists and accentuate Will’s natural bouquet. He’s taken inventory of the man’s home while he’s slept, his kitchen and personal accouterments in particular. Will is none the wiser, and his canine companions are certainly going to keep their secrets. Hannibal imagines them watching him gliding about their master’s house, pawing through drawers and peering into closets, as permissive of him as Will has become. Then he thinks how often he’s soothed Will with a gentle stroke of his hand through hair or along the spine.

Hannibal looks at Winston lying on the floor, eyes closed and eye folded at an endearing angle—then at Will. The resemblance is uncanny. Will had found Winston lost and trailing his leash. Hannibal thinks Will’s tether is fraying all the same. Perhaps it already has come loose, and waits for a capable hand to take hold. Hannibal has never considered owning a dog before, but it crosses his mind now, in a sort of abstract way.

He’s apparently let some of his delight into his expression, because Will is staring openly at him with a suspicious hitch in his brow.

“What?” Will asks.

Hannibal doesn’t think he’ll tell him.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go for a walk”—both Will and Winston perk their heads—”since we’ve an hour to ourselves. After we eat, if you’d like.”

“You’re an hour early? You woke me up an _hour_ early.”

Hannibal ignores the petulant remark and hands Will a bowl, excusing the absence of a proper dining area in exchange for Will’s bedhead and checked boxers. Perhaps soon he’ll be able to indulge in these things from the comfort of his own home.

“It’s really good,” Will says, eyes glazed over with appreciation.

Hannibal smiles.

 

* * *

 

That night, Hannibal stands close behind and smooths his large hands down Will’s wrists as he guides a butcher’s knife through beef liver. There’s something peculiar about the meat, but Will’s never butchered game beyond gutting fish.

“Very good, Will,” a hot rush against the shell of his ear, peppering his arm with goosebumps.

Will wants to tell Hannibal that his mind has gone quiet. That, in the cage of his arms, he’s found a sort of elusive peace; but he doesn’t want to jinx it.

 

* * *

 

Will Graham isn’t sure what he’s getting himself into when he props his hip against Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s desk and asks, “Well, can I see the rest?”

Hannibal’s abortive attempt to hide the drawing beneath a patient journal when Will approaches isn’t particularly inspired. The same can be said for Hannibal’s affect, the slant of his lips belying his apprehension as he presses a finger considerately into the recess beneath his bottom lip. Will can easily parse a measure of tempered delight, and he’s sure he’s meant to; he watches dubiously as Hannibal exhales and reaches around the side of the desk to fetch the accordion portfolio he’s seen him toting about.

“If you wish," Hannibal says, gently handing him the folder with a neutral smile. No preamble. No warning. Will thinks he sees the faintest glimmer of curiosity, but it’s difficult to tell in the office with the curtains drawn and the light failing. The fireplace is lit, and Will feels uncharacteristically placid.

He can feel the weight of Hannibal's gaze as he accepts the portfolio, a few seconds of poignant eye contact between them before Hannibal relinquishes his grip.

He slips out the first page, not missing the slight adjustment of Hannibal’s thin brow. Observes it—nothing untold—and slides it back into its compartment. Then the second, Hannibal’s mouth pursing so minutely that Will isn’t sure he’s done it at all before he studies the drawing. Then he pulls the third loose, his thumb and finger reflexively crinkling the paper as they press too tightly together.

Will slowly looks toward Hannibal, Hannibal’s eyes hooded and mouth not quite pulled into a smile.

“This...”

“Yes, Will?”

He sets the page atop Hannibal’s desk with no shortage of gravitas, gazing down at the offending item from under a furrowed brow. Hannibal continues to watch him, back straight and one elbow resting peacefully on the desk’s edge. His fourth choice yields similar results, and Will can’t help but suck in an exasperated breath as he shakes his head and sets it beside the third. Now Hannibal is smiling. Utterly shameless, Will thinks.

Will keeps his gaze on Hannibal’s chest, not quite so shameless himself, as he asks, “When did you—” No, he shouldn’t be embarrassed; these aren’t his dirty secrets. Now he does meet Hannibal’s eyes, frowning more than a little. “How many of these are there?”

“I think,” Hannibal says, tipping his head towards the two renderings on display, “the number is somewhere around ‘incriminating.’ ”

“No kidding. You know, most people use bowls of fruit and flower vases. Styrofoam shapes, things like that.”

“I thought of that,” Hannibal said thoughtfully, “but I wasn’t sure how comfortable you would be on top of the dining table. I would require at least—”

“Just... bowls of fruit and flower vases.” Will groans and scrubs at his face, more surprised than he ought to be. “I’m not even conscious in most of these!” Will drops his hand from his face and tosses it at them in a gesture of frustration. “I hope this isn’t your idea of an overture.”

He’s kidding, but when Hannibal remains serious, he desperately wants to plead the fifth.

It’s not that he recognizes himself as the subject of the renderings, or even that Hannibal would want to draw him to begin with—it’s that there are so many, and he’s given zero consent. Is that something people consent to? Will isn’t sure, but he doesn’t like that he’s spent so much time unconscious around Hannibal. Never mind that the latter ones exhibit no shortage of eroticism.

He’s already out of his depth, so he carefully pulls a few more pages from the portfolio. He can tell the difference between the strokes. There are the brusque, anatomical cross-hatched studies of the human body, some faceless person bent or poised in the light. Then, there are the Will’s, usually reposed in Hannibal’s office suite with his eyes hooded and unseeing. One in particular disturbs him: he’s reclined back, resplendent with sweat that Hannibal has carefully shaded, pooling in the hollows at the juncture of his neck and collar. The sheen of moisture relieves his contours, highlighting the rise of bones and the dip and fold of fat and sinew. Will knows it’s him—Hannibal has so fastidiously adhered himself to detail—but Will’s seeing himself through Hannibal’s eyes, and the message he’s getting is... lewd, to say the least. Moreover, Will can’t recall lazing around Hannibal’s office with his shirt quite so open and for quite so long as to be drawn before. There are others that Hannibal has clearly recreated from memory rather than reference: Will, chatting with an unimpressed Jack Crawford. Will, gazing into a bowl of silkie chicken like he’s reading parsley leaves.

Will picks up the most explicit drawing.

This one... Will was somewhere else. Maybe someone else. Another fugue? A seizure? There’s tension in his jaw, too meticulously shaded to be anything but a still life. Or, not so still, as it might have been. His curls are damp and tacky, dark hooks swooped against sweat-soaked cheeks and temples, the planes of his neck. He should be more surprised that Hannibal had the gall to let him drift while he sketched. More than once, it seemed.

Hannibal’s eyes belatedly follow Will’s hand as he indicates the infamous rendering of his face and exposed abdomen, doused in night terror.

Will lets out a single dry laugh. “A little discourteous, don’t you think? While people are sleeping.”

“You weren’t sleeping.”

Will frowns. Hannibal doesn’t even sound apologetic. “Dissociating. In the throes of a nightmare. Does it matter?”

“Dissociating, perhaps,” Hannibal says, buttoning his overcoat as he rises from the chair and looms over Will. “Nightmares, no.”

“Yeah”—Will holds up the particular image he’s implicating—“I look really peaceful.”

Hannibal steps closer and takes it from him, observing the sketch with transparent fondness. “You’re not in the grips of terror, Will. Look at your limbs, how soft your mouth is—you’re not trying to close yourself to something, but blooming.” His dark eyes swivel towards Will, and Will feels something in the air tremor. “This is the look of rapture.”

Will chokes, then laughs, turning as if he’s taken sudden interest in the shelf of books behind him.

Hannibal continues: “Not all of your incidents were born of anxiety—particularly those that landed you back in my office. Strange that your subconscious so often brought you to me, but I imagine in a world where you’re relentlessly suffused with others, it’s nice to be seen as you are. As I see you.”

“So you’re saying...” Will looks over his shoulder, not quite at Hannibal, not right away.

“You weren’t extraordinarily responsive to outside stimuli, but you did seem particularly sensitive to me. While you were... indisposed.”

“And you didn’t think to wake me up? Spare me some dignity?”

Hannibal folds his hands behind his back and purses his lips. “I hadn’t thought to, no. It’s a rare occasion in which you can relax, let alone enjoy yourself.”

“Enjoy myself?”

“Or so the evidence suggested.”

“I’m sorry, but are you saying you let me...”

“You were very vocal. I thought you were unwell at first.”

Will’s color is draining from his face.

“Don’t be embarrassed. Wet dreams are common among men that do not regularly ejaculate. It’s perfectly natural.”

“What—” Will’s lip hitches, then his brow jumps. He swallows, hears his throat click, and tries very hard to school his face. “I don’t remember—”

But he does remember some strange dreams, come to think of it, and some strange evidence upon arriving home and shucking off his clothes before a shower. Spindly limbs, tar-black, cool air, the odor of moldering leaves and branches. His fingers clawing gouges through the damp topsoil. The rasp of his labored breathing. Behind him— _oh, God._

“Why didn’t you... I don’t know. _Hey, Will, there’s this thing that’s been happening!_ ”

“I didn’t wish to embarrass you.”

“Please.”

Hannibal acquiesces, glancing askance. “I thought it might be relevant to your condition, and”—eyes back on Will, flashing—“I was curious.”

“Curious,” Will repeats, frustration mounting.

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

“But how did you even know I...” Will makes a gesture towards his middle, shaking his head with incredulity.

Hannibal raises a skeptical brow and says, “As they say, _the nose knows._ ”

Hannibal is looking too satisfied with himself for Will’s liking. Not blatant, but Will knows the creases of his face, around his mouth and eyes, and what it means when they deepen. Yeah, that look is sincere as hell. Will scrubs his hands over his face again, which is starting to feel hot. Something in his gut, too, but never mind that. “Right. Why did I even ask.”

“On a similar note, I’m immensely pleased you’ve started wearing the aftershave I—”

“Hannibal? Stop trying to change the topic.”

“I thought you might want to.”

“You don’t.”

Hannibal’s head tilts. As much of an admission as Will’s getting. Then Hannibal rounds the corner of the desk. Will’s breath hitches in his chest when Hannibal sets firm hands on his shoulders, keeping him from turning away.

“Unorthodox, perhaps a little tasteless, but now I can give these moments back to you. I’ve preserved them.”

“And... don’t try to twist this around like you were doing me a favor. This wasn’t an act of altruism.”

“Not wholly, no. You are beautiful, and are these not at least beautiful in their honesty?”

“Forgive me if I’m still kind of pissed.”

“Can you fault me for wanting to look?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Or yourself, for enjoying that I do.”

Will jerks his head around and glares up at Hannibal. He opens his mouth, but the words stick in his throat. “No,” he says finally. Something about Hannibal’s presence makes obfuscation feel futile.

A thumb creeps up to the soft flesh behind his ear; Will draws a quick breath, then lets his chest slowly deflate, nostrils flared as his shoulders slump.

“I wanted to ask,” Hannibal says after a moment of gazing and stroking his neck.“Whom were you thinking of?”

“What?” Will lofts a brow, little furrows rising above his nose. “Oh. The dream.”

“Yes. Were you thinking of me?”

“No.” Will responds too quickly, lets something in his expression change. Hannibal sees all of it. “Not... exactly. No.”

Hannibal’s thumb has stopped its caresses, but the hand lingers, anchoring Will to him.

Will swallows, unsure where to begin—and sure that Hannibal will press if he doesn’t make an effort. No, he won’t, but Will is tired of being alone with _it_. “I can’t always remember, but there is a reoccurring element. An entity, or projection. I thought it was something leftover from the encounter with Hobbs, the antler room, the whole case, but it got worse, not better. Even while I was awake, especially when you were... It looks like you. Your face.” Will breathes. “I think.”

“Well, that’s something. And in your dreams, this is your suitor?”

“Suitor?” Will laughs nervously, fingers fidgeting in his pockets. “Not always, but sometimes you—it... We, uh...” Will motions through the air, letting his hand pivot on his wrist as if the vague gesture will clarify his meaning.

“Have sex?” Hannibal supplies. “And you enjoy it?”

Will scowls. “You’re not my therapist, remember? Just conversations. We don’t need to discuss my sex life, metaphysical or otherwise.”

“Isn’t this just a conversation?”

“I’m not giving you a play by play.”

Hannibal concedes and lets him go so that Will can meander up the fireplace, hands shoved back into his pockets. “I’m sorry, Will. That was invasive of me.”

“You’re always invasive.” Will cringes when he picks out the potential double entendre.

Will feels Hannibal adjacent. Not too close, but still trailing after him. Giving him space. “But I would like to have you model for a piece.”

Will almost laughs. The gall of it. Will’s not sure why he humors him, but he says, “No animal skulls,” and turns to face Hannibal, who looks genuinely let down by the stipulation.

“If you’re sure, I think I can make due with alternatives.”

“And I’m wearing clothes.”

Hannibal casts his eyes down as he considers, leaving Will for only a moment. Then back up, bottomless with a micro reflection of the fire superimposed across their glassy surface. His voice is hushed. Will bristles.

“Would you compromise for a floral arrangement instead? Winter jasmine for your modesty.”

 

* * *

 

Randal Tier does Hannibal one last posthumous favor.

Hannibal empties the Epsom salt bath into the sink and rinses the pan, setting it aside. He returns to the study to find Will, at last, relaxing in one of his armchairs, fingertips idly tracing over the brocade upholstery. The two fingers of cognac that Hannibal has poured Will is now gone, crystal tumbler winking at him from the side table. Will accepts what Hannibal gives him without question, and Hannibal ventures it is because he asks only for his company in return. In a sense, it is true. If that makes his generosity conditional, it is not a condition that Will seems to mind. Not anymore.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Will says quietly. He doesn’t look at Hannibal, not right away—his gaze is somewhere behind the fire jumping languidly in the hearth across him.

Hannibal steps up beside him and hooks a thumb on the backrest of the chair. He does not look at the fire, letting the weight of his gaze draw a peripheral glance from Will before he speaks.

“Why should you? You are basking in the afterglow of inspiration, priming it for execution.”

“Taking his life...” Will tilts his head thoughtfully, and Hannibal extends his thumb just enough to disturb a curl at Will’s nape. “And giving it back. Elevating it. I can see it so clearly. Like it’s already happened.”

“I am eager to see your work.”

“See me change him.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal hears him breathe intermittently. Then Will says, “I want you to watch.”

“All great works of art are rendered meaningless without an audience. What do you feel, when you think of me”—he could leave it there, but doesn’t—”watching you change him?”

Hannibal’s pleased when Will doesn’t immediately answer, giving his question appropriate consideration.

“A... justified agency.”

“Because you have given something back? To Randall Tier? Plied and improved him. Made him better.”

“Made him honest.”

“Is that all?”

“No.” Will pushes out of the chair with some effort, then stands closer to the fire. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want Jack Crawford to see? Your colleagues at the FBI academy?” Hannibal takes the few slow, measured steps necessary to bring himself back into Will’s sphere, lingering behind him. “Alana,” he very nearly presses to Will’s ear, earning a sharp intake of breath from him.

He’s walking the line, he knows. But he’s curious if Will has come to the truth of it yet.

“Killing Hobbs, Tier. I’m expected to feel grief, regret. There’s a place for it inside my mind, but it’s empty now.”

“You only occupied it with the nature of others.”

“And now they’re gone. What does that leave me with?”

“Yourself. As you inherently are. Something honest. Mimicry is an effective defense mechanism and necessary for survival, but now you have that space for your own. Use it, Will. I want to help you fill the rooms of your mind; and in my mind. You occupy so many already. I would have more.”

Hannibal can feel the heat radiating from Will’s neck and ears, his scalp, as his pulse jumps. He carefully redirects that anxiety by grazing a palm along Will’s spine, bringing Will back into his body. Then, sluicing it in another direction with the faintest deviation of his hand as it falls to a hip, _Stay with me, Will._

“It is a remarkable experience, to shed the masks we wear in front of another. To, for a time, be free of the burden of conformity. Everything is so much more succinct. Ascetics dedicate their lives to the pursuit of it. Chasing peace and the Real Self while denying fundamental aspects. The clergy that reaches for heaven but fears the threshold of death. You no longer fear it.” Hannibal exhales fondly against the back of Will’s neck, pressing close. “Beautiful.” He tightens his hand on his hip, and Will accommodates him by angling his head and relaxing his shoulders. “I want to keep you.”

Will huffs, amused and something else. “What happened to being liberated?”

“It is liberating, to indulge your desires.” He lets his lips ghost Will’s ear this time, a gossamer suggestion. “You know that mine allow you some leverage over me. And that”—he lowers his hand in one smooth, firm motion over the front of Will’s jeans—”excites you.”

Will’s already half hard, biting back a startled gasp and reflexively clutching at Hannibal’s wrist as the hand squeezes around him, thickens him. Will hasn’t yet made a move to dispel or encourage him, and Hannibal doesn’t give him the time to decide.

“What—ahhh—” Another firm squeeze, and Will pushes into his palm.

“When you talk about it. Think about it. I can smell it on you. Like the sweet heat of your fugues. Taste you in the back of my throat.” Hannibal snaps the button on his jeans and pushes inside. “I can always smell it on you.”

“Oh God... I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“And I enjoy it immensely.”

Hannibal is encouraged by the steady rocking of Will’s hips, the wet mouth at the lobe of his ear as Will lets his head back on his shoulder.

“When you sleep, before I wake you”—he presses an open kiss to the pulse in Will’s throat—”I want to taste between your open thighs as you dream of it. That Stygian creature you let ride you into profane euphoria.” Will hums behind tightly-pressed lips, something between humiliation and pleasure. “A corner of delight in the hell of your mind.”

“I think—I think it’s you. It’s always been you.”

“I _know,_ ” Hannibal snarls, not meaning to, and immediately he knows he’s let the veil slip too far, too soon.

The air sparks—the odor of pining—peaking—changing—fear—sour—

“Wait...” The hand on Hannibal’s wrist squeezes. “Wait, stop.”

Hannibal does. He lets Will blame the wine, the whiskey. Lets him conjure up a poor excuse and vanish into the night. Hannibal lets him go, for now.

 

* * *

 

They haven’t spoken since their brief exchange after Will had left his _Return to sender_ note and the body beneath it. Not for two days. He can’t really remember how he’s ended up in Hannibal’s house, not too much beyond the pianist’s hands marching up his thighs, attentive. Skirting soft folds of cheap cotton and finding the breadth of his hips, chasing seams to his cinched waist. His stay at the BSHCI has shaved some of Hannibal’s meals off of him, and bar a few extra scars and his bruised knuckles, he’s back to his pre-Hannibal physique.

Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind. He says as much, not with his words, but his eyes, chiaroscuro bands of black and umber, _Will, this. This... Everything._ His hungry gaze asking to touch him and intuitive enough to divine Will’s bent mouth and quick breath in return. _Yes, God—yes._

Will’s never seen Hannibal like this. Not exactly, not with his eyes wide, transparent with the beast. Not with the valley of his soul cut through by Will’s wild fjord, flooding. He’s divided and suffused, a roiling surface tumultuous with Will. Flooding into every orifice.

Will makes a strangled sound. He’s suffocating him. When had he circled his hands around Hannibal’s neck? It’s a hot, corded thing beneath his fingers. He squeezes, and it pulses, a frantic drum trapped beneath taut skin, beating out a dulcet song. A little more, and Hannibal unhinges his jaw. Satisfying rictus. He’s choking. More, face edging on purple, bruised with strangulation.

Will’s jaw aches from the grind of his teeth. The grind of his hips. Hannibal isn’t even trying to dissuade him, notched fingers affectionate in Will’s curls, along his fevered skin. The air between them sparks, and Will groans.

“You’re not even t-trying to stop me. You’re just—”

His blood-starved brain struggles to pin the right words. His hands look so good, so right, around Hannibal’s neck.

— _taking it._

The seam of Hannibal’s mouth breaks, lips peeling back from sharp teeth. Curling above a bright incisor. Feral. There’s a reply in his burgundy eyes, irises almost red in the firelight. It’s there and gone, smothered from existence.

Oil-slick skin stretched over bones, as if the skeleton were trying to break free from its sinewy chrysalis. Two moons for eyes, hung beneath the ridge of a sharp brow and beneath sleepy lids, expression lax, indifferent to Will’s assault.

Then Will releases him and scrambles back, gasping—breathing almost as raggedly as Hannibal. He can still see the prints of his hands on his neck. They’re both still indecent, pupils blown. Acrid with arousal. Will knows Hannibal can smell it, see it.

He stands and leaves Hannibal to recover. Goes back to Wolftrap. They don’t talk about it. Not during Will’s next session, nor over dinner.

Not until after they’ve survived their plunge into the Atlantic and two months of grueling convalescence. A fever dream through rough waters and into the teeming rain forests of South America. A jostling ride along the foothills of the Andes. A sleepy detour across the cool, dreary plains of Patagonia. And at length, a remote villa with cream, concrete walls covered in creepers and a tiled terracotta roof. The single-story home is deceptively spacious and well maintained.

An elderly Mapuche woman in a brown and red poncho with silver hair and piercing eyes is there to greet them when they arrive, clasping Hannibal’s arm with a familiarity that surprises Will. Will is introduced, but he cannot understand her. Hannibal speaks an unusual dialect of Spanish with her, only occasionally switching to Italian or English. She asks Will, with some amount of effort, if they _eat together_ , and when Will gives her a baffled look, Hannibal tells her that, _yes, they do_ _,_ leaving Will to ponder the meaning.

Hannibal tells him later of a village that eat their dead, of a belief about a deluge and the eating of flesh until only two remain. The horned men and beasts the Mapuche see in their woods and of each other, of the shaman and the chieftain, ways of the Old World brought quietly into the new.

They are invited to take part in a rite. A tide of bronzed, resplendent bodies and beautiful oval faces, Hannibal a ghost among them, murmuring around entrails during haruspicy. Will thinks they might be animal, but he’s not sure. There’s something about their eyes that reminds him of Hannibal’s. The smell of moldering leaves. The hollow quality of the air, carrying their voices and the thump of hooves across the valley. And ox bellows. There are lights in little houses. The smell of pine and the metallic shock of blood. The sound of the squat, horse-hide drum.

They don’t talk about it. They convalesce and exist in their secret place. They don’t talk about it.

Not until there’s blood on their hands, their bodies. Will, fingers digging into the corded muscle of Hannibal’s shoulders instead of into his throat. The heels of his feet pressing valleys into the small of Hannibal’s back as they rock together on an animal skin. The inky tines atop Hannibal’s head winking in the withering twilight. When he sees the man, yielding skin and limbs, he wants to reach out and touch, to feel for something just beneath and inside. Will doesn’t see that now. Looking down his body and between his legs at the dark thing there, he remembers his dreams, the subsequent panic.

Hannibal falters, but Will strengthens his hold, digs his heels in and grits his teeth. “I’m not leaving this time. I want it. I want you. Like this.”

“You see me.”

“Yes.”

It doesn’t let him go. The beast ducks a shoulder behind his knee and bends over him, nudging back between his thighs, finding space inside him. In and in with one unrelenting push, Will’s shout dying in his throat. It’s filling him up.

It hurts, then it doesn’t hurt at all, abdominal muscles contracting as the invasive pressure forces an unexpected pulse of pleasure. His belly warms, and he opens up for him. He’s asking for it, not with his words but the slant of his hips and hooded eyes. Then he’s on his stomach, hips yanked up by dark, spindly fingers. A rumbling sound behind him, from the beast, as they fuck. The angle is good. Will hears his own voice, the hoarse grunts each time Hannibal’s driving hips bottom out. Hannibal’s occasional snarl when Will clenches and rocks back. Fistfuls of fur as Hannibal tips him over the precipice, into another sea, one of shivering ecstasy and starbursts of light behind his eyes. And knowledge of Hannibal doing the same, inside. So deep inside. _Il Mostro_ in his mind, in his body. Teeth in his trapezius, a far-away pain as he drifts, deafened. Blind. There’s only a primitive awareness of scent, the mingling olfactory of charred wood and sex.

They lie together after, Will satiated and lofty, and Hannibal tells him about Palermo.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I art too. Drop by on [tumblr](http://thenecronon.tumblr.com/).


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